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He didn’t look happy, but he stepped back, tucking his Brazilian coin away somewhere.

Poppy ran her card for the second charge, adding an extra dollar tip for the confusion.

Thank god the coffee was cheap to begin with.

She wasn’t one for physical violence, but honestly, Rai’s boss deserved a slap in the face.

What kind of jerk toilet paper company sent their sales rep out in the field without a phone or a company card?

She wanted to squeeze somebody’s Charmin, all right.

When Heather had brought them each a lidded paper cup of coffee and a plastic glass of ice water, Poppy led the way to the condiment bar, prying her lid up to fix it to her liking.

Rai followed suit, and she smiled in surprise—after his insistence on plain coffee, she’d expected some sort of real-men-take-it-black show, but he added just as much cream and sweetener as she did.

Of course, he did this after smelling his coffee as if he’d never smelled it before—the blissed-out look on his face was both relatable and toe-curling—and dipping a finger in to taste it.

His eyes were intent on her the whole time; it made her shiver, wondering just what he was thinking when he watched her hands so closely, or when he sucked black coffee off his fingertips.

If he was thinking what she was thinking, she was in so much trouble.

We are just having coffee, she told herself, forcing her mind back to business. “Have you tried adding cinnamon?” she asked, offering the shaker.

“What is… No. I have not tried cinnamon in coffee.”

“Gives it an extra zing,” she said. “They have cocoa, too.”

He accepted the shaker and raised it to his nose for a sniff. “It is lovely.” He smiled and upended it over his cup, shaking vigorously.

“Whoa there, cowboy.” She hastily grabbed his hand, tilting the shaker back up before he turned his coffee into cinnamon mud. “You just need a little. ”

He looked at her hand on his, and she froze.

Touching buddies or not, she might have crossed a line.

Brendan would have been offended, probably given her the silent treatment the rest of the morning, and the part of her that she’d tried to bury back in Illinois zombied on up out of her emotional graveyard and told her to let go, but it was too late.

Rai was already looking at her, eyebrows knit, and she braced for impact.

“Have I done it wrong?” He let her take the cinnamon shaker, but his eyes were on hers.

“Not wrong. It’s just going to be very strong.” She looked down to add a sprinkle to her own coffee, then a little cocoa powder, and snatched two stir sticks. She handed one to Rai.

He watched her stir her coffee for a moment, then followed suit.

“I am very strong. It is fitting that my coffee also be strong.” He fell silent for a moment, watching his hands as if putting lids on coffee cups was another puzzle.

“Is there another manly man award I should aspire to? We have agreed I am not a boy.”

It took Poppy a moment to realize what he was referring to. “You’re also not a cow. And word of advice, don’t tell a cowboy you think he’s not manly.” She turned toward the booths, cups in hand. “Them’s fighting words in this town.”

Rai turned with her and took a sudden breath. “You are on the wall.”

Well, crap. She’d been planning on leading up gradually to that, feeling out whether he liked her drawings before she admitted that they were hers, but she should have known Rai would spot and recognize her self-portrait.

“Just a little.” There wasn’t anyone sitting in that end booth, so she succumbed to the inevitable and went to slide in on one side.

Rai joined her, setting his cups down—though she noticed he had already drained his water to the ice—and moving to peer more closely at the drawing. “Did your phone do this?”

“No, I…” She stared at her hands, cupped around her warm coffee.

“It’s not very good.” She hadn’t even wanted to hang that piece alongside the others, colored pencil botanical drawings that she’d thought Southwest-obsessed tourists might want to buy, but Heather had insisted when she’d looked through her portfolio and then overridden her protests by pointing out that she knew the Café Legend market better than anybody.

Which would feel more true if Poppy had sold the darn thing.

It was hard, putting her art out for people to look at—not just the one that held her face, but anything she had drawn or created.

It was the part she liked least about being an aspiring artist, having people stare at little pi eces of her soul, judging whether they had any value at all.

Especially when the answer was almost always no.

“It is very good. It is you.” He lifted a finger, tracing through the air above it, ghosting the curve of her shoulder on the paper. “You created this?”

“I drew it, yes.” She took an embarrassed sip of her coffee. “So, um, did you sleep well last night?”

He did not reply, instead moving his fingers to the label beneath the drawing. He frowned and opened his mouth to say something Poppy probably didn’t want to hear.

She didn't let him start. “Did you want some more water? Let me go get you some more water.” She snatched his glass and hurried toward the register.

Heather gave her a conspiratorial smile as she took the glass. “New boyfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

From the way Heather’s eyes twinkled, she was not fooled. “He’s cute.”

“Cute and stupid,” Poppy grumbled, then sighed. “No, that’s not true. He’s not stupid. Just kinda clueless?”

“Those are the most dangerous kind,” Heather commiserated, handing the refilled glass back.

“Don’t I know it.” Poppy thanked Heather with a nod, braced herself, and returned to the table. “Here you go. Hydrate or die-drate.” She set the cup in front of Rai, who had thankfully stopped inspecting her art.

“My thanks,” he said gravely, then took the cup, drinking and drinking until the water was gone.

Poppy watched his throat as he swallowed, mesmerized.

He was like a hypnotist, a hypnotist of ladies.

Men, too, if the furtive looks the grouchy aspiring author by the door was shooting in their direction were any guide.

“Do you need more?” She needed him to need more.

“You need not fetch for me.” He took a sip of his coffee instead, thoughtfully swishing it around in his mouth a few times before swallowing.

“So? What do you think of the cinnamon?”

“It is bitter,” he said, but he had a satisfied look on his face. That cat who’d just drunk coffee with cream.

This time last week, she would have smirked and quipped back Bitter…

like my men . But she was starting to think that might not be true.

Rai was the opposite of bitter—the opposite of anyone she’d ever dated, in high school or college or beyond.

Especially Brendan, who would already have found just the right words to make her feel like shit about her art, under the guise of constructive criticism, instead of acting like her silly drawing was a miracle.

Maybe she was starting to like her men like she liked her coffee—sweet and strong with a little bit of spice.

The real question was, could she count Rai as hers ?

She hoped so, because she didn’t want things to end yet.